


Where's home?

by charlesworthy



Category: Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, maybe i don't know this is very gooey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 18:08:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10599378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlesworthy/pseuds/charlesworthy
Summary: It's a barmaid, or a lumberjack, or some one who gives them gold when they find work, who asks.  The question is worded nearly identically each time, a stray probe meant to reveal an intimate piece of Ike -- of them -- that only friends may be privy to.





	

Whenever Ike is asked – and he's asked _a lot_ , Soren notices, because he's helpful and friendly and has charming air around him despite all the rough edges – where 'home' is (a common question for travelers such as them; especially when they're this easy to talk to), he always mentions a fort in a far away land called Crimea, a little too small for all the people living in it. He helped build it when he was just a boy, and rebuild it again when he was older.

If Soren's asked (and he never is; he gives off an aura of cool hatred, always has, and his constant proximity to Ike may suggest his answer is the same), his answer is more complex.

He doesn't like answering, of course, but he does so silently. In his mind's eye, the word 'home' conjurs images of large, rough hands, of blue hair, of a dusty cape that was just thick enough to keep the rain off two on dirt-paved roads. In fact, 'home' to Soren has never been a place. The first house he dwelled in (a house and home are two different definitions, as far as Soren is concerned) was messy and unkempt, where he lived as an accessory or article of furniture rather than a real child. The second house was neat and smelt like dust motes, but Soren lived as a voracious scholar, even if he hadn't grown into it yet. He spent a lot of time between houses, making tiny, temporary ones out of the roots of a tree or abandoned, decrepit buildings. Even in a building that welcomed him, taught him to speak, allowed him to do – for the first time in his life – things he desired outside of the drive to survive, it wasn't a home. Perhaps because by that point, he'd already found Ike once.

No, the fort housing the Greil Mercenaries wasn't a home. He'd convinced himself at one point it was, but he realized during the first war that it wasn't. It didn't matter which building they slept in, what kind of bed held their bodies, he felt the same cool indifference. If he was in the room with Ike, though...

Soren's answer to that question is always silent. He slides his eyes over to Ike's form, regardless of whichever words his mouth deigns to wrap around in response. Sometimes, he poses the question to himself. Hearing the word might make him glance in Ike's direction. Perhaps he trained that into himself.

And he knows that no matter how much Ike speaks of the Crimean hillside, of the blue skies and gentle breezes, of shaded trees and his favorite spot in the fort they both used to live in... It's a lie.

Because Soren, for all his wisdom, knows a thing or two about home. It's not a place you'd ever want to leave.

 


End file.
